The Golden Suspect
The dust was gold. It settled on Elias Thorne’s hands as he sat in the high-backed chair, a fine, metallic powder that did not drift but clung, heavy and cold against his skin. He was fifty-two, a retired archivist whose life had been defined by the preservation of paper, yet his own body was failing to hold its shape. The Gilded Rot had begun in the autumn, a slow consumption of memory and...
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